


Heart and Head

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to being a curious experiment, just as he takes on the mysterious case of Ms. Whitaker. But with Irene back in town, and a change in John and Sherlock's relationship, things start to become more complicated than Sherlock ever anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. categories

chapter one: categories

Sherlock Holmes pulled the sheet over himself tighter, and pressed his face into the cushions. It blocked out the noise, and let him escape into his mind. The mild bangings of a busy Mrs. Hudson and the clickings of a typing John Watson faded into oblivion, and Sherlock stood in front of his mind palace.

Palace was an extravagant word, and his mind palace was indeed extravagant. Not in decor or architecture, he had no use for things like that. But it was an endless hall of doors. Behind each door lay a recess of information on an individual subject. Sherlock wandered down the halls. The blue battered door was everything he knew on soil samples. Across the hall was a fresh green door that held a file of decomposition rates in damp conditions.

But where Sherlock headed now was a disused, red door. He didn't venture in here often. Not before he'd moved into Baker Street. Lately, however, it had be irking him, like something was waiting behind it. And with that, the door swung open.

Here lay the piles and stacks of information on John Hamish Watson. Army Doctor, Afghanistan, initial psychosomatic limp, used to play rugby. The words flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes, and he pushed them away with a wave. He knew this already. He had deduced this within seconds of laying eyes on the doctor.

An array of subjects rose into Sherlock's view, like an imaginary whiteboard before him. He scanned through them with lightning speed. Family. Work. Personality. Relationships. History. Interests. Wait, he had seen what he wanted. Sherlock went back, and brushed away all the words except for one: Relationships.

Names flew up. Harriet, Sarah Sawyer, Jeanette, and on and on. Sherlock eradicated some categories. Family was the first to go. Then coworkers were tossed. Finally, all that was left was the romantic category.

Women's names that Sherlock vaguely recalled and cared little about rose up onto his imaginary board. They had similar personalities, nice women, homely professions. Typical, ordinary.

With that, Sherlock discarded the rest of the names, and brought up another sparse category. Friends. He went to his own name.

This what had been bugging him. What was the relationship between Sherlock and his flatmate? Sherlock didn't really have friends. But then, why had he categorized himself under Watson's friends? Something else dug a hole in a corner of Sherlock's mind, but he pushed it to the side. It was irrelevant, distracting.

Sherlock thought. He thought for a long time. He thought about how John had exhibited so much bravery in A Study in Pink. He thought about the patience the army doctor had for the high functioning sociopath. He thought for a long time.

Something tried to break Sherlock's thought. Something like a voice. He tried to shut it out, he still had work to do. He hadn't reached a conclusion yet. However, the voice won out.

"Sherlock, I'm going out. I'll pick up some of that tea you like." John shut the door with a small bang, and Sherlock shifted and frowned as he gathered his thoughts.

He had reached a conclusion, however. He cleared his board, and shut the door. He winded through corridors that were seemingly endless until he had reached a dark, plain black door. Sherlock went inside.

Here was Sherlock's own room. One he almost never went in, he knew himself. But he had business to do.

He summoned up a word to his blackboard, creating a category that never before had held a space in this part of his mind palace. He added what was necessary, and packed the category away, filing it among everything else.

There, nestled between enemies and family, lay something entirely new to Sherlock.

Friends: John Watson.


	2. let's have dinner

chapter two: let's have dinner

Sherlock peered down into his microscope. Tiny little creatures swarmed over a sample of flesh. The detective pulled away from the equipment and made a little scribble on a piece of paper. This went on for several minutes, but it seemed like seconds for Sherlock, who was engrossed in his work.

Suddenly, a very flushed John Watson came in. "Sherlock, your uh, well your phone."

"What about it John? I'm working."

"Well, it went off, and, you see."

"John, it's a phone. It rings." Sherlock valued John greatly as a companion, but sometimes he got so clogged up in that ordinary brain of his. With a sigh, Sherlock pushed his chair out, and rose. He was wearing his bedsheet again, it had become something of a habit of his. John let out another series of incoherent mumblings.

"Sherlock, you own clothes. Why don't you wear them?"

"I don't like them." The tall man strode across the room to pick up his phone off the table. He turned to John, with an irritated look.

"I really don't see what is so important about my phone right now. Whoever is texting me can wait. Besides, it's most likely just Mycroft asking me to -"

_Ahhhh._

The sounds of a very pleasured woman emitted from Sherlock's phone, and he turned down to regard it with slightly raised eyebrows.

"Well I don't think it's Mycroft." Sherlock flipped open the phone.

_I'm in town. Let's have dinner._

_I've missed you. Let's have dinner._

Sherlock placed the phone back down on the table, setting it to vibrate. "I'm going back to work now. Are you going out later?"

"You didn't tell me Irene was still alive."

"It wasn't important." Sherlock once more placed his eyes against the lense of the microscope. The flesh underneath was beginning to put off a stench, but Sherlock was unphased.

"Well it seems like the type of thing you'd mention."

"She holds no meaning for you."

Behind Sherlock's back, John made a frustrated face, turning red along his ears. "I'm...I'm going out." John grabbed his keys and walked out the door, slamming it shut in his wake.

Sherlock studied his samples for a moment longer, and then packed his things away. He wandered over, still enveloped in his sheet, and wormed out a hand to pick up his phone. Reading over the text messages, a small smirk played across his lips. Quickly and deftly, Sherlock pressed the keyboard in a rapidfire succession.

_Let's have dinner. - SH_


	3. whisper, whisper

chapter three: whisper, whisper

_I'm in red._

Sherlock lightly touched the girl in front of him on the shoulder. She turned quickly, red curls bouncing on her shoulders. Her hair was cropped slightly below her chin, and she had a scarf and peacoat on, covering her up from the neck down. Sherlock smirked. "I know."

Irene Adler smiled back at her favorite detective. "Clever. I was hoping to be in disguise. Although quite frankly, nothing fools you, does it?" She cooed, stroking the hand on her shoulder.

"Simple. You don't have your phone out on the table like most women do, as they are constantly anticipating calls and updates. Not to mention, pupils."

"What about my pupils, Sherlock?"

"They're the same as they've always been. Dilated."

"Come, sit. Let's have dinner."

Sherlock sat himself down, and quickly glanced on the menu, although he did not feel particularly hungry. They had chosen a quaint cafe, out of the way of Mycroft's peering eyes.

"What has brought you back into town? Typically the dead don't travel much." Sherlock inquired, peering at Irene. "Business, perhaps?"

"Oh clever Sherlock, no. Business is still far too risky. Even with my change in style. Do you like it?" Irene fingered a curl, and then placed her manicured hands back on the table. "Why, I simply miss some old friends of mine."

A waitress came over, and sharply asked for their orders. Irene ordered a small coffee. Sherlock waved her away with a flick of his hand. He had more pressing matters now.

"Friends, you say?"

"Yes, one of my friends, she was in the same line of work, you see, that's how we met, has gotten herself into a bit of trouble. Seeing as how I am all about trouble, I thought I'd come to offer some assistance."

"As yourself?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Irene was not one to be so dangerously irresponsible with the protection her new appearance and faked death offered.

"Oh no. As a client, perhaps." She winked coyly. "I haven't had some good fun in a while."

The two sat in silence for a moment, and Irene's coffee arrived. She swirled at its foamy top, and then once more looked up to the man in front of her. "Oh, but how I'd love to have fun with you. How I'd love to make you yell for me, scream for me, maybe even beg." Irene's gaze was intense, but Sherlock stared on.

"I never beg."

"Oh, but you would for me. I would make sure of it." With that, Irene quickly stood, and grabbed her purse. She drew her coat around herself tighter, and adjusted her scarf. "Mustn't stay in one place for too long." She leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. "It's been a pleasure Mr. Holmes."

As Irene began to walk away, Sherlock stared at her abandoned cup of coffee for a moment. Then abruptly, he turned and grabbed her wrist. "Wait."

Irene stalled, and he beckoned her closer. He raised his lips to her ear, and whispered something that caused Irene to smirk, and her eyes to grow large.

"I will see you for dinner, Mr. Holmes." And The Woman was gone.


	4. the art of deduction

chapter four: the art of deduction

Sherlock was not nervous. He was rarely nervous. But he tingled with anticipation, and a bright curious desire. He had decided to begin a new branch of research, and he couldn't wait to learn.

That was the thing, Sherlock was not excited about the experiments themselves, or the topic of research. He was turned on by the sheer idea of new information. And this, this was brand new information.

In a fit of boredom, Sherlock had decided to venture towards the unfamiliar subject. He had never expected himself to wander towards its enigma, but he currently found the usual dirt and flesh he worked with dull and unentertaining. Sherlock did not cope well with boredom, the holes in the wall stood for that.

Likewise, many of his cases centered around this theme. Understanding it fully could aid him, he assumed. Although he didn't have a case now, one was going to spring up sooner or later. Sherlock ran through his proposed experiment and a small shiver went down his spine. Anticipation.

The detective's flatmate came in through the door, shrugging off his jacket, and placing his keys upon the counter. "Sherlock." John nodded a greeting to his friend. Wordlessly, Sherlock rose up out of his armchair and headed towards the kitchen, where John was placing his groceries in the cabinets and the fridge.

John opened the fridge to put in a jug of milk, and let out a small exasperated gasp. "Sherlock, for the last time. Would you please tell me when you're going to put rotting things in the fridge?" He turned around to face the detective, and suddenly Sherlock was against him, mouth on his.

The milk fell to the floor.

Sherlock had decided to venture into the realm of physical contact, mostly to better understand it. He figured he personally would not enjoy it, and so far, he could see he was right on that assumption. But, in order to garner the proper results, John needed to think Sherlock was doing this for fun, not for science. He didn't feel guilty about deceiving his friend. Everything would come to light when Sherlock had gathered a proper data base.

However, Sherlock was already beginning to be surprised. As he clumsily fumbled around the kiss, John reacted positively, taking charge of the situation. Sherlock let John guide him, curious to see what he would do. It wasn't much of a surprise that John reacted to a male, Sherlock had deduced a long time ago John was interested in both sexes, although females a bit more so. It was a surprise that John reacted this way to his friend. Sherlock had thought he would shy away from the impending change in relationship. But apparently, John had been waiting for this for a long time.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hands running along his shoulder blades. Sherlock was hesitant as to where to place his own hands, but John guided them. One in his hair, and another on the small of his back.

John was pressed up against the fridge now, feet standing in a growing puddle of milk, and he pulled Sherlock closer to him, so their hipbones pressed into each other almost painfully. John's hipbones were not the only part of the army doctor Sherlock was pressed into.  _Enough for today._ Sherlock decided, and pulled himself out of John's grasp.

Both of them stood for a moment, breathing a little heavily. Sherlock ran his eyes over John, taking in every reaction, every hint of what John was thinking. Then, John spoke.

"I ought to clean up the milk."

Sherlock nodded. "That would probably be a good idea." He wandered back towards his armchair while John rummaged around for a towel.

He, Sherlock Holmes, had just kissed John Watson. John's reactions that Sherlock had observed were muddled, and unexpected. Sherlock curled his long legs up to his chest, and disappeared into his mind palace to think. The art of deduction was surely a complicated one. The art of seduction even more so.


	5. ms. whitaker

chapter five: ms. whitaker

"Sherlock?" Ms. Hudson called out the detective's names. "You've got a visitor."

"Send him up." Sherlock's gruff voice called back. John, seated in the arm chair across from his looked up in surprise.

"How did you know it was a him?"

Sherlock pointed to the window in reply. "He stopped, checked a piece of paper, and then walked towards here." He continued to pluck at the strings on his violin while he waited for their guest.

When he thought Sherlock wasn't looking, John glanced over to Sherlock. Just yesterday the man had pinned him against the fridge, and kissed him, something John never thought Sherlock would do. John, needless to say was thrilled. He had long felt affection towards Sherlock, but kept it especially hidden, working hard to keep it from his friend. But it was all out in the open now.

` Sherlock had seen John looking at him from the reflection in the mirror, and could see the doctor's eyebrows knitted with the intensity and perplexity of his thoughts. The two had talked when John finished cleaning up the milk, and Sherlock had emerged from his reverie. It had been awkward at first, and the two sat in a murky silence. But John was the first to venture out.

"So, um. What exactly was that?"

Sherlock started off slow. "I was...curious." He hesitated. He had been curious, but in a completely different way. "And you are my closest companion. I felt accustomed to you." Sherlock's steely way of speaking didn't necessarily convey the emotion he needed John to think he had, but he hoped John would pick up on it anyway.

"I see." John shifted a bit in his armchair. "I'm sure you realized I didn't pose any objections."

"It was noted."

"Right." John nodded again. He couldn't tell Sherlock any more about his feelings towards them. A secret part of John hoped for so much more than a mere curiosity, but he didn't want to startle Sherlock, to scare him away. "Well, then. If you're still curious..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

"I'll let you know." Sherlock replied.

The door to the flat opened, and a flustered man burst in, eyes full of worry and distress. "You must help me." He begged, pleading at Sherlock. John stood and sat the man down, and Sherlock leaned forward, hands pressed together.

"And what must I help you with?" he inquired.

"My wife. She's gone missing. She disappeared just a few days after we got back from our honeymoon, and I just don't understand. She couldn't have run away. She was happy." The man nervously pulled at his shirtsleeves.

"What is your name?" Sherlock asked.

"Roger Hampton. Please, no one else can find her."

"Your wife's name? Maiden, please."

"Ella Whitaker." Roger once more became preoccupied with his shirtsleeves.

"Tell me about your wife, then. And the wedding, your relationship. I will stop you if I am bored."

The man nodded furiously, and began to speak. "We met about eight months ago. Her mother, she worked in my office, she introduced us. And we went on a few dates, and I thought she was wonderful. And I guess we hit it off. So we started to see each other. She seemed to really love me. I mean she called, and kissed, and, if you'll excuse me, she really enjoyed the bedroom. So, you know. I asked her to marry me one day. And she said yes, and everyone kind of thought it was sudden, but we didn't seem to mind. She was the one who wanted to get married as soon as possible. So we set a close date, and it was just a little thing. Family, mostly. We honeymooned on a little island off the coast, and just a few days after, that's when she disappeared." The man was starting to become an inconsolable mess. John went up into the kitchen to fix tea.

"Did Ms. Whitaker work?"

"Um, yes. Just a small job at the grocer's during the day. She was attending night school every other day."

"I see." Sherlock leaned back into his chair. He was silent for a moment. "We will take the case."

John, having just returned from the kitchen, placed the tea on the table, and gave Sherlock an odd look. The case seemed ordinary, boring. Same as all the ones before. But Sherlock had decided to take it anyway. He made it off to be a result of boredom, and a startlingly unusual lack of other cases.

Roger rose, beaming, and sloshing tea out of his cup. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded. "I will be in touch."

Roger scribbled down his phone number and rushed out the door.

John took his seat in the armchair again, and looked over at Sherlock. "Why did you take the case?"

Sherlock glanced over to his flatmate, and smirked. "I was...curious. I'm very curious today."

John smirked back, and this time, he was the one who kissed Sherlock.


	6. a change of names

chapter six: a change of names

Time for dinner - SH

Irene Adler eagerly looked over the message sent to her phone moments before. Sherlock Holmes was finally coming over for dinner. A sharp rap on the door grabbed the Woman's attention, and she stood, trailing her hand along her silk sheets as she exited her bedroom.

She opened the door, and there stood Sherlock, tall and imposing as ever. A hungry look sparked in Irene's eyes and she pulled him in by his arm. "Oh, Mr. Holmes. What a pleasure."

"And you, Ms. Adler." Sherlock began to take off his scarf, but Irene put out a hand to stop him.

"Leave that on, would you?" Sherlock complied.

"How is that friend of yours?" He inquired, following Irene as she traveled through the flat.

"Oh, not well, poor dear. I visited her Thursday and poor thing has had to go into hiding." Irene halted in front of a door, and place her slender hand on the doorknob. "The dining room."

In reality, they had passed the dining room a while back. The euphemism amused Sherlock, and he thought of this as he followed Irene into the bedroom.

"Tell me again, what changed your mind about all this?"

"For science, Irene. Always for science."

She came close to him, and twined her fingers into the scarf she had requested he keep on, and pulled him close, lips nearly touching his. "Oh, you are so sexy when you talk about your work. But you're just as sexy if you don't talk at all." And with that, Irene kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock kissed her back. He knew a little more than he had before, because he and John had kissed several times since the first incident. He knew to slide his hands to the small of her back and pull her closer, but naturally, Irene still remained the dominant force.

Sherlock was not enjoying himself, but that was not the point. He had an experiment to complete, and he needed as much data as he could get his hands on. That was why he involved Irene and John both, to get male and female data. Sherlock could care less one way or the other what sex he was with, because he could care less if he was with anyone.

Irene tore off his scarf, and his coat soon after. Now Sherlock stood in jeans and a tight button up shirt. Irene wore a tight dress, and she broke away from Sherlock for a moment to unzip the back of it. "Help me out?" She asked, flashing her eyes at him. Sherlock could read her desire to do everything and anything to him, but the restraint she held. He made note of this.

Hesitantly, Sherlock slid the dress off of Irene. It had been strapless, and apparently enough to support her, because Irene was clad in nothing but a very revealing set of underwear. She smiled, obviously proud of herself. "Your turn, Mr. Holmes." Locking her lips onto his again, Irene expertly undid all the buttons on his shirt, and took it off in a fluid motion. Next she busied herself with this zipper.

Trailing a line of kisses down Sherlock's neck, collarbone, chest, stomach, she arrived at the edge of his jeans, and locked her teeth on his zipper, unfastening his pants using only her mouth. Typically this trick gained a very nice reaction from her clients, but Sherlock simply looked awkward and unsure. Irene finished removing his pants, and rose again to grab Sherlock by the hand. She led them to the bed, and layed down. Sherlock stood standing, and watched as Irene slipped off her last piece of clothing. Thinking it was only the next logical step, Sherlock removed his own underwear and awkwardly placed himself on top of Irene. She flipped him over, and while kissing his neck, whispered "Just sit back and let me do all the work."

Sherlock and Irene lay in a tangle of sheets, and Sherlock was silently processing all that had happened. Irene had enjoyed herself plenty, but Sherlock didn't understand the appeal. Sure, he had physiologically responded, more so than he ever had with John, but he had found the experience quite rudimentary. With a sudden motion, he rose from the bed and began to dress.

Irene looked up. "Not going to spend the night, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, John will be wondering where I am at." He slipped back into his shirt, and attended to the buttons.

'It's a shame, I had a lovely time. You know, I suppose I can't really call you the Virgin anymore, now can I? A change of names is probably in order."

Sherlock did not respond.

"Well, until another time, Mr. Holmes." Irene rose from the bed, red curls bouncing on her shoulders and placed one last kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Goodnight, Irene."


	7. the simplest of gestures

chapter seven: the simplest of gestures

John and Sherlock walked down the street, John looking down on his phone, and back up again repeatedly. "Are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Of course I am."

"But see, my phone says that we should have turned back there."

"Shortcut." Sherlock tapped his head a let out a foolish smile. "I know this city brick by brick." With that, Sherlock abruptly turned and entered a grocery store, bells ringing as the door swung shut behind the detective and his companion. They had been in touch with Roger, and asked him where Ella had worked. This was the address he had gave them, and it was there they continued their investigation.

"May I help you?" An employee confronted Sherlock, smiling almost painfully wide.

"Ah yes. Did you know Ella Whitaker, or she might have gone by Ella Hampton."

"Oh." The employee's face fell. "Ella."

"I take that as a yes. Why did you dislike her?" Sherlock glanced over the employee. Young, mid-twenties. Overly friendly, disliked by most of her coworkers. Flirtacious.

"Why did I dislike her? The bitch stole my boyfriend!" The employee let out an angry huff. John took over.

"Your boyfriend. How did that happen, exactly?"

"Well, ex-boyfriend, actually." And John was suddenly entwined in a web of he said/she said gossip.

Sherlock wandered off to go talk to the manager. He was easily spotted by the way he placed a hawk-like glare over the rest of the employees, and his slightly more manicured dress, as well as the gold badge blazoned proudly upon his chest. "You hired Ella Whitaker, yes?"

"Yes, I did. Why do you care?" The manager rudely replied.

"Because she has gone missing." His face dropped slightly.

"Er. Yes. What do you want to know?"

"She worked to help pay for her night school, yes?"

"Night school? She never went to night school. She graduated college last year. Who told you that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Her husband, who it appears was badly misinformed. Thank you." With that, Sherlock left to rescue John from the clutches of Ella's co-worker.

"But you see, it's all her fault, because she's dressing like a stupid slut all the time." She scoffed, and John gave Sherlock pleading eyes.

"Thank you for your information. We'll be going now." Sherlock pulled John away by the arm and quickly exited, leaving the employee with a small look of disappointment that no one would listen to her story.

"Well. It appears Ella was quite adept at 'stealing men'. She seems to be regarded by a lot of people as someone who just likes to sleep around." John noted, rubbing his ear as if the woman's grating voice still resided in it.

"That may provide us a clue. I have learned something very interesting, John." Sherlock said, a hint of glee in his voice. The chase was on. "Ella, it appears, did not ever go to night school."

"Huh. Any ideas?" John asked, knowing full well Sherlock was running through thousands right now.

"Yes. Two plausible. No. Three."

The two continued to walk down the street, and John was silent, letting Sherlock think. Occasionally he would mutter an "Aha!" or, "Perhaps", but mostly to himself. But then, John spoke.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Would you...would you hold my hand?" John asked, nearly tripping over the words as they spilled out of his mouth. He was almost surprised he had just said that.

Sherlock thought about this. John had never initiated any contact with Sherlock, unless Sherlock had made it very clear he was okay. The detective had noticed this long ago, and packed it away in the file he was building on this subject. He had been collecting all sorts of data. Common reactions, likes, dislikes, even Sherlock's own reactions. He compared what he knew with John to what he knew with Irene, and how the two differed. Irene, being fully aware this was an experiment, and John, in the dark.

That being said, Sherlock was unsure of if he wanted to initiate anything other than pure sexual contact with John. That's what this whole experiment was for. He didn't want to mislead John anymore than necessary, but he also felt he should be through. For a moment longer, Sherlock was quiet, contemplating his choices. Finally, he took John's hand.

"Yes, I will hold your hand."

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlocks, and gave a small, warm squeeze. John looked positively radiant. Sherlock smiled a little himself, happy to see his one true friend happy.


	8. conscience

chapter eight: conscience

Sherlock sat in his arm chair, long legs tucked up to his chin. He was running through the case he was working on. In his mind, he saw Ella Whitaker in big, bold white letters. Several bubbles of information spawned off of her name, but Sherlock was focused in on what she could possibly be doing instead of nightschool.

Obviously she felt like she had to hide it. Affair, perhaps? Not so often. Too noticeable. Drugs, gambling, then. Those were more likely suspects. But drugs would take a toll on her appearance. Gambling would dwindle her husband's money, and her own as well. Sherlock pursued many other options, but found faults in all of them.

With a sigh, he unfolded his legs, and stood, stretching slightly. John glanced over at the movement, but returned back to his computer. Sherlock came and stood behind John, and looked at the screen. Blogging, of course. Sherlock was bored.

Placing his head on John's shoulder, Sherlock decided to try something. He started kissing John's neck, and biting timidly at his ear.

"Sherlock, what -?"

"Shut up, John. I'm working." Sherlock growled. Since his last encounter with Irene, he had decided that he and John should pursue a similar path. For a while, Sherlock payed attention to John's neck, but that grew old, and he turned John to kiss his lips. John stood, and the two moved away from the desk, arms twining around each other.

Sherlock hesitated at the edge of John's coat. He didn't really want to do this, he didn't find any appeal in it. But he felt obliged to create an accurate set of data, and that included doing this. With a small mental sigh, Sherlock slipped off John's coat.

Clothes flew off after that, as the two messily made their way over to the bedroom, leaving a trail of shirts and shoes in their wake. John was really enjoying himself, Sherlock noted. His anatomy made that rather clear. But Sherlock wasn't really responding. Apparently, John had noted this too. He decided to take things into his own hands, quite literally. Sherlock's eyes widened a little, and John pulled the two of them onto Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock had, like he would for any experiment, done a bit of research, but he relied heavily on John to show him what would produce the most efficient reactions. He made notes for the next time, and added it to his previous knowledge he gained from Irene. The database was reaching its necessary capacity, and soon, the experiment would be finished and retire as an aid in future cases.

After they were done, they layed in bed for a while, Sherlock mostly starting at the ceiling, and John turned on his side. Sherlock was processing the events, but who knew what John was thinking?

Eventually, John turned to face Sherlock. "Sherlock?" He asked, starting to run his fingers over his flatmate's chest.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock retired his thoughts for the moment and glanced to John.

"What are we...I mean." He coughed, unsure of how to word his thoughts, despite having planned it out in his head moments before.

"Are you inquiring about the status of our relationship, John?"

"Yeah. What are we, exactly?"

Sherlock paused, and thought of his response. He could not honestly tell John this was merely an experiment, it would ruin his results. But he also did not want to lie further. "I am not sure. What would you like to be?"

John looked Sherlock in the eye, and took a deep breath. "I'd like to be more than friends I'd like to be a couple, Sherlock."

Sherlock broke the gaze. He hadn't been oblivious to the spark that lit up in John's eye at the prospect of being a couple.

"I mean, I understand if you don't. I just, I care about you Sherlock, and I know this is a new thing for you, so I don't really -"

"Yes."

John stopped short. "Yes?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied again, still looking at the ceiling. John smiled widely, and kissed Sherlock deeply on the lips.

"You are brilliant, absolutely brilliant." John settled himself onto Sherlock's chest, and contented to listen to the detective's heartbeat while Sherlock thought.

Sherlock was boring a hole in the ceiling with his eyes, running circles in his mind. For the first time ever, Sherlock was unsure about an experiment. A little nagging thought tore at the corner of his mind, and he tried to push it away. Sherlock had no time for emotions right now. He had a case, and an experiment. He was busy.

But the nag refused to go away. Sherlock attended to it, and with a sinking feeling, confirmed his suspicions. He felt guilty, horribly guilty for treating John like this. His one friend. But, he had work to finish. He would confront his feelings then, not later.

With one last glance at John, now asleep on top of him, Sherlock pulled the rumpled sheets up and fell asleep next to John, his flatmate, friend, and now, boyfriend.


	9. the woman

chapter nine: the woman

Sherlock and John had continued to explore their new relationship. John was very romantic, now that they were a "couple". Sherlock didn't mind that so much. He actually like the affection, it was something no one else had ever sufficiently provided for him. There was Molly Hooper, of course. And Sherlock had felt regret in the way he carelessly, unemotionally pushed her away, but that was just it. It was unemotional. John, at least he had a friend in John, if nothing else. And it was that small connection that Sherlock was able to let the affection in through.

But, the physicality. Sherlock was glad that the experiment was drawing to a close. He hated that type of intimacy, even with John. Just the feeling of someone touching him, and having so much control over him. It drove him crazy. It was just so  _invasive._

John was always nice about it. He never pushed Sherlock too far, he always stopped if he was asked to, but that did change Sherlock's mind about it all. He did not like to be sexual. He saw that it made John happy though, and between that and the desire for scientific inquiry, it was enough to allow Sherlock to endure. Anything for his work. Anything for John.

However, with all this new attention being paid to John, Sherlock was neglecting the other half of his experiment. He and Irene had not had dinner in quite awhile.

So when John went out to the store, Sherlock took the opportunity to text the elusive woman.

_Dinner? - SH_

Sherlock's phone vibrated, and he picked it up. It did not make the rude noise as usual, because since John's initial discovery that Irene was back in town and the beginning of Sherlock's experiment, it was best to keep the fact Sherlock and Irene were communicating under wraps. John had asked about her once at twice, but Sherlock remained silent, and he soon left the matter alone.

_Mr. Holmes, what a surprise. I thought you'd forgotten about me. Dinner sounds lovely. Your place or mine?_

_Mine. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

Normally, Sherlock would have gone to Irene. But with John out of the house for at least two hours, he decided it was safe. Not to mention, Sherlock felt more comfortable in his own home. No sense in making matters more painful than necessary.

Within a matter of minutes, a sharp rap hit against the door. Sherlock opened it, and there stood Irene. Her red hair was straight this time, and she wore a black dress, tied around the waist, loose around the chest. She glanced around the room and smiled. "I see not much has changed here."

"I'm not fond of redecorating. You remember where the bedroom is, I presume." Sherlock shut the door behind her, and came back to stand back in front of Irene.

"Of course, I remember that situation very well. Sherlock Holmes, incapacitated." She gave a sly, smug smirk, and Sherlock's face twisted into a small grimace.

"Yes. Well, go on. I'll be there momentarily."

Irene let herself into the room, and Sherlock saw her drop her dress off as she closed the door. Sherlock went over to his bookshelf, and scanned for a particular section. Wedged between an encyclopaedia and some books on physics, was a long, slender black object. Sherlock grabbed it, and followed behind Irene.

He entered the bedroom, and Irene had already made herself comfortable, spread naked on the bed. As she glanced the object Sherlock held, her eyes grew wide with delight.

"A whip? You've remembered my favorite toy."

"I wanted my data to be thorough." Sherlock said, tossing the whip to her.

"Oh, but of course." Irene grinned devilishly, and rose off the bed. She grabbed hold of the edge of Sherlock's button up shirt, and kissed him on the lips. "Let's be very, very thorough then."

Irene left as soon as business had finished, and Sherlock retired to the armchair, deep in thought, waiting for John to return home.

At first, it was an analysis of the event. Irene's behavior, her reactions, the use and function of the whip. It all ran past and was filed away behind the proper door in his mind palace. But, something else had occurred that had yet to be categorized.

Because Irene was still in town, her friend must still have been in trouble. Sherlock was growing curious at this mysterious figure. While Irene held Sherlock down, straddling him and trailing the whip on his chest, he asked a question.

"What is your friend's name? The one you came to help."

"Sherlock, now is not the time for talking. Unless you want to talk dirty, we can do that all you like." Irene placed the tip of the whip over Sherlock's mouth. He brushed it away, and Irene let out a caricature-like pout. "Sherlock. Don't be so disobedient. I'll have to punish you for being so naughty." A fire gleamed in her eyes, but Sherlock didn't speak.

Instead he grabbed her down and kissed her, and thrust upward with his hips. Irene let out a noise very reminiscent of Sherlock's ringtone. Pulling away slightly, lips still touching, Sherlock spoke. "What about the beginning? What does her name start with?" He growled in a low voice, and pushed upward again.

"L-" Irene began to whisper, but jolted upright. "Sherlock. You naughty boy. Trying to distract me and manipulate me." She raised the whip, and smacked it hard across Sherlock's chest. He let out a small gasp of pain. "Tsk, tsk. You shouldn't have done that to me." The whip struck again, and again.

Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts, and peered down beneath his collar. Red welts were springing up, and the pain that arose when he shifted in his chair reminded him of the marks on his back as well. The door to the flat opened, and John came in. Sherlock didn't move.

A pair of lips pressed on his cheek, and John's voice filled Sherlock's ear. "Hello Sherlock, sorry it's so late. I went to visit a friend. Coming to bed?"

The army doctor left to go change into pajamas, and Sherlock hesitantly rose and followed John into the bedroom. They slept in Sherlock's room, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice all the signs that marked Irene's presence.

Tangled sheets, indents on the carpet from her heels, a lack of dust where her fingers gripped the nightstand. He knew John wouldn't make heads or tails of it, but Sherlock still felt like every little detail was staring him straight in the face, taunting him.

He laid down in the bed without changing, and John edged up beside him, pressing his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock held back a grimace of pain. "Why didn't you change?" He inquired.

"Going to be up. Working on the case. Just figured I come in and sit with you." Sherlock lied.

John smiled brightly, and kissed Sherlock's cheek again. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock didn't sleep all night, and he didn't think about the case once.


	10. machinery

chapter ten: machinery

John awoke as the sun crept through the blind in Sherlock's room. Sherlock still stared straight ahead at the wall, shirt wrinkled where John's head had laid on it. The army doctor stretched, and Sherlock spared a small glance before returning his gaze to its previous position. "Morning." He said gruffly.

John rolled towards Sherlock slightly, and Sherlock winced at his welts. "Were you up all night?" John asked with a tone of concern.

"Yes." No movement from Sherlock.

"Any progress on the case then?" John was sitting up now, stretching his arms.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and this time he actually looked at John. "A little. I am close to finding a motive, but not her nightly whereabouts."

John nodded. "Perhaps you should sleep." He said, knowing full well Sherlock didn't sleep much when he was focused on a case.

"I'll sleep later." Typical Sherlock.

"Well at least take a break." John urged. He could see the weariness in Sherlock's eyes, and he wondered if the detective had gotten any sleep at all in the last few days. Sherlock didn't respond, so John let his hand rest on Sherlock's chest lightly. "Let me take your mind off it for a bit." He turned Sherlock's head with the touch of a his hand, and leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock didn't protest, but he didn't react either. John was convinced he was still thinking. He would fix that though.

But when John moved to lay on top of him, Sherlock spoke. "John." He said, trying to get John off of his chest. Before Sherlock could move to stop him, John slid a hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, and his hands brushed over the sensitive marks Irene had left. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp at the pain, and John drew back sharply. "Sherlock, what...?" His eyes were full of confusion and concern. He reached out to undo a button, but Sherlock pushed his hand away.

"It's nothing." He growled.

"Sherlock." John reached out again, and Sherlock didn't move to stop him this time. He looked on as John undid each button, and lightly moved the fabric aside. The welts were bright red, and a few were bruising around the edges. John trailed his finger carefully along the sensitive skin to examine it. Sherlock hissed in pain when he got too close to a sore spot.

"What happened? It looks like someone hit you with a whip." He followed one mark along Sherlock side, and slid his hand to his back. Another hiss. "Your back too? Sherlock, what on earth?"

Before Sherlock could speak, his phone went off, Irene's distinctive ringtone sounding through the bedroom. Sherlock had forgotten to set it back to silent once John came home. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the backboard of the bed. He knew John had figured it out.

He opened his eyes to find John staring at him with disbelief. And hurt. So much hurt. "John. Let me explain."

"Explain? What the hell is there to explain, Sherlock?" John drew away from Sherlock, nearly shaking with anger. "She did that, didn't she? Well, am I right?"

"Yes, but John -"

"Don't 'but John' me!" John was standing now, leaving Sherlock alone on the bed. "Sherlock. This is...this is cheating." John's voice had gone from yelling to a quiet, almost whisper. He looked wounded, and Sherlock was racked with guilt. John was never meant to find out this way.

"John. Please listen to me." Sherlock started, worried John would stop him again. However, he remained silent. "Irene. She was an experiment. All of this was. All the sex, and the kissing, and the physicality. It was an experiment. Scientific inquiry." The words were barely out of Sherlock's mouth when he realized John would never appreciate the need for science.

"Sex. You had sex with her. Right." He coughed, and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "How many times?"

"John, don't do this." Sherlock said sternly.

"How. Many. Times." John started again, shaking with anger, a dangerous tone creeping into his voice.

"Five." Sherlock said blatantly, turning his gaze away.

"Sherlock." John spoke again, but Sherlock didn't move. "Sherlock! LOOK AT ME."

Sherlock looked at his one and only friend.

"Was I part of the experiment?"John demanded.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Yes. You were part of the experiment."

John was silent. He turned to the wardrobe, and pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt. He started to change, throwing his clothes on the floor. Sherlock sat in the horrifying silence, listening as John tried to control his breathing. He watched the way he threw his pajamas to the floor, and the way he shut the drawer a little too hard. Angry. Confused. Hurt. Sherlock read it all off of John like a

book.

"John, it wasn't supposed to be like this." Sherlock said quietly. John turned slowly towards his flatmate. "I didn't intend for it to go so far with you. It was supposed to stop after I gathered the information I needed. We were never supposed to be a..."

"A what, Sherlock? A couple? You were never supposed to have feelings for me?" He scoffed.

"I only kept it up because it made you happy. You are my friend, John. I care for you."

John's face briefly twisted in an unreadable way, and he just shook his head. "You don't care for anyone. You are a machine. A scientific, cold, calculating machine. That's all you will ever be. That's why you're so alone, you know? Because you push everyone away. You fight with your brother, you scorned Molly, everyone at Scotland Yard thinks you're a smartass psychopath. And now me, the only idiot stupid enough to deal with you. Now you pushed me away too. You do not care about anyone Sherlock."

John was shaking, and he had gripped the edge of the dresser without knowing. He uncurled his fingers, and grabbing his coat off the floor, stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock retreated. He drew far into the corners of his mind. The hallways of doors sprung up, but Sherlock didn't enter any of them. He simply wandered the halls, unwilling to venture back outside into the world of stimuli. Unwilling to see the rumpled sheets where John had laid, the dust that had fallen from the door frame when he slammed it, the drawer that was not quite closed.

Finally, Sherlock did choose a door to go into. A red, disused door. John's door.

The files on John sprung up, all the categories and names. Sherlock watched them rush past his field of vision. Suddenly, it all stopped, and the excess words dropped away.

John Watson. Relationships. Sherlock Holmes. Flatmate, friend, partner.

Sherlock shuffled words around, rearranging.

John Watson. Relationships. Sherlock Holmes. Flatmate.

The consulting detective withdrew from his mind, and slid down into the bed, still wearing the clothes from yesterday. He drew the sheets to his chin, and let a sleepless night's exhaustion wash over him.


	11. connections

chapter eleven: connections

The silence was unbearable. 221b Baker Street was devoid of noise, save for quiet shuffles and the shutting of doors and the clacking of keys and microscopes. John barely looked at Sherlock. Only involuntary glances and a stray moment of eye contact brought the two flatmates near each other. Sometimes, Sherlock saw John looking at him via some reflective surface and caught a glimpse of the pain and confusion in his eyes. And sometimes John caught a glimpse of the regret and self-loathing in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock truly felt awful. He had lost his only friend. He hadn't quite realized what it was like to lose the unique comfort of friendship. Frankly, he'd never had the opportunity to lose it before. This onslaught of emotional distress was exhausting for Sherlock. He did not cope well with emotion. In fact, he nearly ignored it all together, if possible. But, he found this impossible to ignore.

To combat it, he turned to his work. If he was unable to figure out how to fix things with John, he could at least solve his case. At least he was good at that. Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

He had figured out one thing. Ella Whitaker's mother had forced her into marrying Roger. Sherlock had decided to pay a visit to the woman yesterday. Mrs. Whitaker was overly fond of dear Roger, praising him, saying he was such a kind, wonderful man. How lovely the wedding had been, how she felt sorry for him. But oddly, she didn't mention much of Ella. She showed very little concern for her daughter.

So this was what Sherlock now thought about. Obviously there was a conflict between the two. A falling out of sorts, most likely. And it had to do with the marriage, Mrs. Whitaker seemed to love Roger as her own son, and Ella didn't sound like she revered him in such high esteem. Sherlock had noticed a picture on Mrs. Whitaker's desk, one of Ella and Roger. She was a very pretty woman, extremely pretty; tall, blonde, slightly tanned with a nice figure. Comparably, Roger was average. That implied an external motive, such as money. But Roger was not rich, nor anything particularly spectacular. So the only logical solution was that Ella felt like she needed to please her mother, who deemed Roger suitable for her.

Sherlock decided that this meant that Ella had disappeared of her own accord. She had left Roger because she had no reason to stay. She didn't want to impress her mother any longer, and took off, hence her mother's attitude towards her. Now, Sherlock just needed to find Ella to smooth out the details.

To find Ella, Sherlock was determined to discover what her nightly adventures were. It would lead him straight to her, and likely give more clarity to the case. However, he was stuck. He withdrew from his thoughts, and reached over to pick up his phone. He hadn't checked it since John and him had fought.

_3 Unread Messages._

Sherlock opened the messages.

_How's your back? Come over for dinner, let me see._

_Sherlock, I'm hungry. Let's have dinner._

_I'm bored. Let's have dinner._

Irene. Sherlock ran a hand over his chest. The welts were fading out, but the worst of them still stung. The last message had been sent this morning. Sherlock set the phone down, and returned to his thoughts.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open. "Irene." He said, almost involuntarily. John snapped his head towards Sherlock, disgust painting his face, but Sherlock didn't see.

He grabbed his scarf and tightened it around his neck, texting with the other hand.

_We need to talk. No time for dinner. -SH_

Sherlock shut the door behind him, and John leaned back into his chair, closing his laptop. A sigh escaped his lips, a shuddering, pained sigh. He stood and walked over the the kitchen and began to make himself a cup of tea. Once it had boiled, he poured it in a mug and began to stir. As he watched the liquid create a small little whirlpool.

Slowly, a tear slid its way down John's cheek, and splashed into the center of the swirling tea. John shoved his tea to the ground, ceramic breaking, and tea spilling everywhere. "Dammit Sherlock." He yelled. "Damn you, and damn that woman."

John leaned over the counter, hands gripping the edge until his knuckles gleamed white. Tea pooled around his bare feet. He shook with ragged breaths, trying to hold his anger inside. Eventually, the breaths slowed, and John kneeled down with a rag, and began clean up the mess. He finished, and set down the rag.

He spared it a second glance, for no particular reason than he had noticed a stain. He studied it, trying to remember where the stain had come from. It was yellow, probably mustard. Then, John remembered. He threw the rag down, and walked rather rigidly back over to his desk.

There had been mustard on the floor the day John had dropped the milk.


	12. small world

chapter twelve: small world

Sherlock rapped against the door to Irene's flat. Short, harsh knocks. He waited a second or two, and then pounded the door again. Mid-knock, Irene opened up the door.

"Mr. Holmes, do take pity on my door." She stood completely naked, and held the door completely open to accommodate.

"I said there was no time for dinner." A tinge of disgust flickered over the word 'dinner' as it left Sherlock's lips.

"Who said we were having dinner?" Irene disappeared into her flat, and Sherlock followed.

"Irene. We need to talk."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. Did I hurt you too hard during our last meeting? Tsk, tsk. I thought you could hold up to so much more."

"My back is fine, thank you." Sherlock growled. Irene cocked her head in response, a long, thin finger trailing along her jaw in contemplation.

"Oh, but something isn't fine. You are angry, Mr. Holmes. John, I assume?"

Sherlock was steely.

"Really, how did you think this was going to play out?" She moved closer to Sherlock, placing a finger on his chest. He kept his chin raised and a fierce eye contact. "Did you think your little John was going to understand? Understand it was a game? Oh, poor Mr. Holmes. I thought you were smarter than that." Irene pulled away and sat down.

"Here's the thing. You and I, we're perfect for these little 'experiments' of yours. No attachments, all fun and games."

"This is not what I came to talk to you about."

"But now we're talking about it. I know why you're here. We can address that later. For now, we will talk about you and John. Take a seat."

Sherlock stood still, unwilling to give in to Irene's commands. He did not want to talk about John. He did not want to be reminded of his mistakes but, unfortunately, Irene Adler was very good at bringing back those memories.

"Suit yourself," the Woman sighed. "Sherlock." She leaned forward in her seat. "John  _feels._  How could you not see that all along John would fall? Crumble to pieces when he found out? I assume he found the welts. He's always been jealous of me. Don't get me wrong. It would have been better if you'd let him down properly. Perhaps you could have fabricated some lie. But really, did you honestly think he wouldn't be crushed?" Irene peered at him curiously.

"I didn't think," Sherlock drew in a long, ragged breath. "I didn't think John would love me." Sherlock felt a sting behind his eyelids as he closed them and took another strangled breath of air. When he opened them, he found Irene staring at him with wide eyes. She'd drawn back into her chair again, arms crossed with one hand resting against her face.

"Oh, Sherlock. Couldn't you see? The way he would look at you? The great consulting detective, too afraid to entertain the idea someone might love him."

Sherlock turned steely. "I don't need your sympathies, Irene Adler. That is not what I came to talk to you about."

"I'm aware." Irene stood up, and walked over to the coat rack, where a long sheer dress hung. She slid it on, and turned back to Sherlock.

"Where is she?" He demanded.

"At work."

"Where does she work?"

Irene smiled. "I won't give it away that easy. I know you'll find her anyway."

Sherlock let out an angry huff. He reached out for the door, drawing his coat tighter around him. He stopped for a moment, and turned his head over his shoulder to meet Irene's glance. "How did you know what I was here for?"

Irene laughed. "I remember my little slip up. I owe you one for that. But, if you are anything Mr. Holmes, you are persuasive." She winked, and watched as Sherlock walked out, closing the door a little harder than necessary.

She shook her head slightly, curls bouncing around. "For all the effort you put toward avoiding it, Mr. Holmes, love is still your greatest weakness."


	13. confrontations

chapter thirteen: confrontations

Ella Whitaker sat in an armchair across from Sherlock and quietly sipped at the tea Mrs. Hudson had prepared for her. The room was silent, but it was a comfortable silence. John was out running errands, and Sherlock was glad to have the flat to himself.

A sharp rap hit the door, and Sherlock stood. "That'll be him."

Ella sighed, and pulled her blonde hair over her shoulder. The great Sherlock Holmes had found her, there was no avoiding the inevitable anymore.

The door opened and Roger stepped in. His face was stunned. "Ella. You look so beautiful, I'm so glad to see you." He ran to hug her, and Ella let him embrace her. But when he turned in for a kiss, she pushed him back.

"Roger, please." She begged, her eyes wide with apology.

"Roger, if you would." Sherlock gestured to the chair, and Roger sat, eyes lingering on his wife.

"Mr. Holmes, please, explain what's going on." He pleaded, glancing between the woman across from him and the detective pacing the room.

"Of course, that is what I have brought you here for. Ms. Whitaker and I have talked, and she has given me full permission to explain the case."

Ella nodded, and took a sip of her tea to avoid Roger's eyes.

"Now, you have met Mrs. Whitaker, Ella's mother. I assume you have realized she is very fond of you," Sherlock began. "It was on her behalf Ella initiated a relationship with you. Ella, you see, does not really attend night school. She works another job, as an, ah, escort, to be as polite as possible."

Roger's face twisted into one of rage. "You're a prostitute?" he shouted. Ella quickly turned angry as well.

"No need to be so rude about it." She snapped.

Sherlock coughed, and brought the attention back on to him. "I discovered this through a few major deductions. I spoke with Ella's coworkers at the grocer's, and none of them had ever heard her mention anything about night school. Therefore, Ella was doing something else in her evenings.

"I ruled out the obvious, drugs, alcohol, and so forth. All would have left much more obvious signs. However, after a discussion with an..." Sherlock paused, looking for the right word to describe Irene. "Informant, I was able to find out Ella's profession. Due to the nature of this profession, Ella isn't necessarily the type to go off and be wed. However, her mother disagrees. She wanted Ella to settle down, produce a few children, the whole domestic lot. This was the most difficult piece of the puzzle. My informant had told me the name began with 'L', but what I did not realize at first was that it was not the letter, but rather the sound. After I had uncovered that part, however, everything quickly fell into place."

The tension between Roger and Ella had dissipated, and Roger simply looked crestfallen. Sherlock figured that was the typical reaction when one's relationship falls out from under their feet. John had maintained a similar look when he discovered the truth.

"Anyway. To please her mother, Ella went off, found a man of her approval, and got married. Soon after the wedding, however, she changed her mind, and in a fit of independence, ran off to return to the life she preferred." Sherlock finished with a nod, and sat down, folding his hands together.

Ella spoke next, her bitterness from Roger's earlier comment subsided. "I'm very sorry Roger. I should have told you the truth. You're a lovely man, you'll find a lovely woman someday. I'm sorry my mother brought you into this." She grimaced with apology, but Roger was unresponsive.

"Ella. I loved you. And I thought you loved me too." He looked at her with large eyes, brimming slightly with tears. Sherlock cocked his head as he observed the emotions coming forth in the room.

Ella fell silent. "I should go. I'm sorry Roger." She grabbed her coat and left the flat, wiping at her eyes as she left.

Sherlock and Roger were alone in the flat. Sherlock figured if John were here he'd try to comfort Roger, but that was not something Sherlock did. After a few moments of prolonged silence, Roger rose.

"I think I ought to leave now. Um, thank you, I suppose. For your time, at least."

Sherlock nodded. "Goodbye, Roger."

As Roger was leaving, John entered the flat. He turned to look at Roger's disappearing back. "Solve the case?"

For a minute, Sherlock had thought he had heard wrong. He looked up from his lap to look at John. "Yes. Ella was a prostitute. Her mother forced the marriage."

John nodded and broke the eye contact with Sherlock, and the brief moment of connection was over. However, Sherlock couldn't help but think about how this was the first time he and John and exchanged more than two words in several days. It had been short and brusque, but they had talked, and that was all that mattered.


	14. ultimatum

chapter fourteen: ultimatum

Sherlock paced the flat hurriedly, his focus on the floor right in front of his feet. Each step brought clarity to another thought. He stopped abruptly and threw himself down into his armchair, tangling his fingers into his curls in exasperation.

At that moment, John walked out of his bedroom and spared a glance towards the frustrated detective. He paused, wondering if he should ask what was puzzling Sherlock, but instead continued to head towards his desk.

Sherlock untwisted his fingers from his hair and placed them back into his lap. He looked towards John, and studied him. Bags under his eyes, lack of sleep. Duly noted with the unusually large cup of coffee. Unkempt hair from sleeping, not going out anytime soon. Tapping of his fingers, waiting for the computer to load. Silence. Anger.

"John." Sherlock spoke the name before he had time to realize he had decided to grab John's attention. The army doctor jerked his head over, his tapping fingers freezing. No reply, just a simple look.

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain the look gave him permission to speak, it was an indecisive one, so he spoke anyway. "John. Irene left town." Sherlock was unsure of what else to say, so he left it at that. Irene had departed soon after he had solved Ella Whitaker's case. "So, the experiment is officially concluded."

"We're the results conclusive enough for you?" John turned back to his computer screen, which had now loaded fully. He began typing, beginning to block Sherlock out.

"I learned one thing. I learned I shouldn't hurt my friend, especially when he's the only one I have."

John halted his typing, but did not turn back to Sherlock.

"The thing is, you have to understand the experiment was never designed to hurt you. That wasn't the point, it was-"

John pivoted to look at Sherlock. "I have to understand? Me? No, Sherlock. You have to understand. You have to understand what you did to me." John was standing now, fists clenched in rage. "Sherlock, I cared for you. I had a lot of feelings I kept bottled up, for your sake. And mine, I suppose. But I knew you couldn't reciprocate those feelings for me, I knew you never would. So when you finally came forth, when you kissed me? I thought I was the luckiest man alive. The sole man who Sherlock Holmes cared about more than himself." John shook his head and laughed. "But obviously, I was right the first time."

"John, I-" Sherlock fumbled for words, unsure how to bring the argument back into his hands.

"I didn't sleep for day, Sherlock. Days. Do you know how unimportant you make me feel? I'm your only friend, Sherlock. You think I would deserve a little more respect than that. Maybe some recognition I mattered more than a pawn in your stupid little games?" John turned his back on Sherlock and ran a single hand through his hair, sighing loudly.

"John," Sherlock began.

"What, Sherlock? What else do you have to say to me?"

"I'm sorry."

The words stopped John in his tracks. His hand fell to his side, and his face flickered through

a series of emotions. He wondered if he had really just heard Sherlock Holmes, the man who never apologized, say he was sorry.

"I am sorry I used you. Forgive me." Sherlock stated it cleanly, simply, but looked right into John's eyes as he said it.

"No, Sherlock. I won't forgive you. I'm looking for a new flat." John had been

harboring the secret the last couple days, but between the uncomfortable silence and the

constant reminder of Sherlock's disregard, he couldn't stand to be at 221B anymore. He was looking into a nice, small one he could afford on his own. It was just down a few blocks. Part of him didn't want to leave, but the other part knew he needed to get out.

Sherlock looked at John, open mouthed. "John, you can't do that. You're my flatmate."

"Yeah, and I was your best mate too. But look where that got me." John sat back down at his computer. "It's settled, Sherlock. I'm leaving."

Sherlock rose from his chair and walked over to John, he stood a foot or so away, unsure of how close to get. "John, look at me."

Reluctantly, John looked at Sherlock, irritation painting his face.

"I need you, John. You can't leave."

In Sherlock's eyes, John saw something he never saw. He had studied those eyes for ages, and never once had pure terror come across in them. Sherlock's body remained stoic, but the way he looked at John caused the army doctor to pause.

"You have a day. One day. You decide what's important. Your experiments, or me."

Sherlock read the leniency growing in John's eyes, and the terror dissipated from his. He nodded in response. "I understand."

John grunted, and Sherlock retreated into the kitchen. To John, the decision seemed obvious. One right or wrong solution. But to Sherlock, facets of knowledge were at stake. Millions of things he would never be able to explore in risk of hurting John. Thousands of ways he could apply his mind, wasted, gone. However, he had always had plenty of those. He had only ever had one friend.

Sherlock leaned his tall body against the refridgerator, and sighed inaudibly. When had he ever valued petty emotions over the truth of science? When had he ever seen this issue as anything other than black and white? But all of a sudden, everything was more complicated. It was no longer a matter of what was practical and what was mundane. It was a matter of heart and head.


	15. rainstorm

chapter fifteen: rainstorm

Thunder crashed outside of 221B Baker Street. A strong hammer of rain against the windows drowned out all other noises, and every few seconds, lightning illuminated all of London. It was because of this that Sherlock entered the apartment soaking wet. His curly hair was dripping all over, down his face, neck, and onto the floor. His coat was a shade darker than usual, drenched in the rain.

Sherlock disposed of his damp clothing, deciding his button up shirt and trousers were dry enough for continued usage. However, instead of taking a seat like he usually did, Sherlock hovered by the door. He watched John, who, after their discussion yesterday, had once more resumed his silence. Sherlock had wondered why John would choose what could possibly be his last few days at Baker Street in complete silence.

Anger, of course. John had been betrayed. Why would he want to talk to the man who had used him, broken him, so badly? Sherlock cringed inwardly at his own thoughts, but continued, almost involuntarily. Sherlock suspected another motive for John's muteness. Despite recent events, John and Sherlock shared a unique bond. John had been Sherlock's only friend, for starters. But they had been a perfect team, an inseparable set of partners. The two of them cared for each other, like family if nothing else. So, Sherlock suspected (but never tried to confirm) that John didn't want to remember any of that. It would only make leaving harder for him, it would only hurt him more. And for that, Sherlock was a little glad. John deserved to protect himself from Sherlock, and he very well should. Sherlock was unpredictable, reckless, self-absorbed. John needed to protect himself from the detective, and Sherlock was glad he knew how. But part of him ached for John to say something, anything.

Sherlock paused at the door for a moment more, listening to the rain beat irregular rhythms against the glass. Finally, he took a breath and approached John.

"John."

John looked up at Sherlock from his seat on the couch. He placed his mug of tea down, and looked at his flatmate expectantly. "Well. Been a day. Get on with it. Me, or your work."

"John, it's not that simple. Just listen to what I have to say, and-"

"Me. Or your work. There is no middle ground Sherlock."

Sherlock had feared this. He cared for John, so much he might even venture to say he loved him. Maybe not romantically, but as an invaluable companion, John was his world. As Sherlock took in the options John were offering, everything became blurry and rushed. The sound of the rain and thunder crashed into his eardrums in a cacophony of confusion. His heartbeat joined the mix, sped up and threatening to burst out of his chest.

"John, please." A hoarse whisper escaped Sherlock's throat, and he swallowed hard.

"No. Pick." John started right into Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock looked back into John's. He saw steely resignation, he saw how John distanced himself from his emotions and feelings, he saw the military man John worked so hard to push away.

"John, I can't just stop my work. You don't understand, I'm able to do so much more than other people." Sherlock heard the words come out of his mouth and knew right away they were a bad idea.

"Alright, so you've made your choice." John rose from his seat, laughing dryly as he did so. "And so self-absorbed about it. 'I'm so much better than everyone else, John. I don't have to play by the regular rules'" he mocked. John grabbed his coat, and turned the door knob. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

John Watson left 221B Baker Street. He descended down the stairs, and out the door into the rain. With no umbrella, he pulled his jacket tight around him and let the rain drench his head. He did not walk down the street, or move under cover. John simply stood slightly off center from the door of 221B Baker Street, and thought about how much it hurt to leave Sherlock up there, alone. But he also thought about how much it would hurt to have stayed.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat, hair still dripping from the rain. That was how fast everything had gone. That was how fast he had lost John. He felt a drop of water hit his lip, and automatically went to lick away the rainwater. Sherlock let out a slightly hysterical laugh. This wasn't rainwater, rainwater wasn't salty.

Then, something unreal happened. Everything vanished from Sherlock's head. Every thought, every idea, everything. Sherlock forsook his jacket and scarf, and rushed down the stairs, practically tripping over his feet. Mrs. Hudson called out words of concern, but Sherlock ignored them completely. He dashed out into the pouring rain, lightning and thunder resonating around him. At the sight of the man standing no less than twenty feet away, he stopped dead.

"John." Sherlock yelled, his voice being drowned out by the noisy weather. But John had heard, however, he didn't respond.

"John. I choose you!" Sherlock cried out again, taking a faltering step toward John. "I'll stop it all. No more cases, no more experiments. I'll go find some other work." The words felt like needles to Sherlock, abandoning everything he was good at, but watching John abandon him felt like knives.

John slowly turned, and looked at Sherlock through the downpour.

"John. Anything. Just...come home." Sherlock rose a hand to reach out towards John, but let it sink to his side in defeat.

"You'd really do that for me?" John asked, but in a stern, unyielding tone. "No more games, no more dead bodies, or crap in the fridge, or late nights at the microscope. You'll just be my flatmate," John paused, "my friend?"

"Of course, John. Of course."

John slowly walked to Sherlock, so slow it seemed like a thousand years. He looked at Sherlock for a minute, and Sherlock desperately hoped he'd never look away.

In the pouring rain, with the thunder crashing, and the lightning striking, with everyone else running for cover, John Watson wrapped his arms around Sherlock Holmes, and hugged him tight. He shook as a sob racked him, and Sherlock's arms wrapped around John to hold him still.

"You don't have to stop your work, Sherlock. I was never going to make you do that. I just wanted to know." John spoke, his voice muffled in Sherlock's chest.

"To know what?" Sherlock moved John so they were looking at each other again.

"To know I was still your best mate." John smiled ever so slightly, and Sherlock smiled along with him.

"John Watson, you will always be my most invaluable companion. Always." Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder and patted it a few times. He removed his hand, and turned so he and John stood shoulder to shoulder.

Sherlock watched the rain puddles grow as the drops splattered into them, and gazed on as the lightning struck some far away location. He heard John breathe a shaky sigh, which Sherlock echoed inwardly, and he listened to the thunder chorus across the clouds, and Sherlock smiled.

Never had a rainstorm been so beautiful.


End file.
